


Disciples

by CaerOLaine



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Death, Gen, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-07
Updated: 2014-02-07
Packaged: 2017-12-09 12:20:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaerOLaine/pseuds/CaerOLaine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The members of the Abbey of the Everyman don't have an easy life defending the world from the influence of the Outsider and encountering aversion of the populace, resistance of witches and heretics, not to mention meddling of a group of magically gifted assassins, in their endeavours. But let’s just assume, that they are ordinary people, looking for comfort and sense of life in this difficult times. They need some positive RP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this post](http://pathopharmacology.tumblr.com/post/46760215008/oh-my-god-i-never-read-the-plaques-about-the) on tumblr. I did my best to see (and show) the religion “with a human face”. Beware, a lot of deaths ahead.

High Overseer Benjamin Holger

“His words will drive us ever onward.”

Founder of the order. Wrote Reform and Tradition.

Knife driven through his eye during the Siege of the White Cliff.

 

 

He is scared. Fear surges through his body, rising and falling in continuous waves, the same way the tide comes crushing on the rocks below, reaching higher and farther with every return, deafening every other sound and every reasonable thought he might have. Only a high pitched cry of seagulls can break over the roar of waves, their voices sounding strangely close in one moment, only to be distant and muffled in the next, carried by the wind reaching him in sudden gusts. The light of a torch flickers, flats and – in more than one occasion – is almost blown out, as is his faith in celestial signs and hope in precautions against all evil lurking in the dark. The pool of light extends only three steps ahead, leaving the crashing sea beneath in darkness. He can’t see it, through the pitch black night, but he knows it’s there. Waiting, its bed spiked with razor sharp rocks, counting on one false step to devour a careless rambler.

The road near the cliff is narrow and slippery, the gravel beneath his feet doesn’t give the support he needs, making his steps unsteady. Gusts of ferocious wind are tugging at his clothes, pulling him closer to the edge. He resists, but it’s harder with every step, his legs aching from a long trek, his breathing ragged and laboured against cold blows. He shivers and almost loses his footing trying to wrap his coat tighter around him, almost dropping his torch.

The Abbey promised him safety from all spirits that wish him harm, but here, out and in the dark, he’s not sure their promises can be kept. Only a pure heart and incorrupt mind against creatures of the night and their primeval god. It seems so inadequate in the face of tremendous and terrifying powers wielded by those who follow his path. In this time of chaos, when one country raises against another, shortages and sickness run rampant in the streets it is so easy to believe, that some other forces are at play, causing havoc and rejoicing in discord and misery of a common man. He doesn't know about the war, but he's seen swarms of ravenous rats, stripping a man from flesh right to his bones or strangely shifting shadows, hiding whoever could master them, he heard about men being able to see through the eyes of others.

He feels strangely alienated, even though he’s not walking alone. The shoulder of a man next to him should give him support, but the mask hiding his face is grotesquely twisted, displaying only anger and scorn, as if the Abbey reached to his very soul and found a fault. It doesn’t matter he looks through the slits of the very same mask, showing his brother in arms exactly the same expression. The man meets his gaze and for the split second he thinks he sees fear and doubt and despair, before it hardens with grim determination and the man averts his eyes, as if ashamed that he let his uncertainty take control.

From the way they are coming, he has an excellent view over the valley spread before them, with only a hint of buildings in the distance. Few of them are ablaze, the flames are shooting high into the air, viciously devouring what must be a wooden frame and thatched roof. He can see dark silhouettes against the flame and notices frantic movement, wind carries distant shouts and sound of gunshots.

The forefront is dotted with campfires, lit between a multitude of tents. Their white canvas glow in the darkness illuminated by warm light. From a distance the camp seems empty and quiet, the dark shadows moving silently between tents remind him of a gloomy vision of afterlife and send a shiver down his spine.

When they come closer, he can make out the silhouettes of fellow Overseers who came earlier, dark against brightly lit encampment, hunched over the fire, taking in all the light and warmth the burning wood is giving. Their eyes shine with zealous gleam, eager and hungry, faces stern, lips whispering the familiar verses of the Strictures.

He doesn't feel he's one of them. The uniform and mask remind him of an oath he swore, the words of Strictures are giving reassurance and hope, like a lighthouse beacon shining its light far into an endless ocean, but he still remembers the shape of a rune on his palm, its warmth and strange excitement that filled him up whenever the rune was close. He is ashamed of his thoughts and though the light of a fire is so inviting, he doesn't think he deserves to seat by the side of a true Overseer. So he wanders off in hope transgressions of his errant mind will be forgiven.

First line of buildings is eerily quiet, the air is thick with smoke, drifting close to the ground, trapped between houses. It makes his eyes water and he fights back a sudden urge for a coughing fit. The dying light dances on the remains of a burned house, casting long shadows on the wall of a neighbouring structure and flickering on a window pane. In one of them he spots a child’s face, ghostly white, eyes dark and wild are looking at him with silent reproach, before the face disappears behind the window frame.

Back then, in Dunwall, it seemed the right thing to do, to join a newly created order in fight against the Outsider, to never again feel helpless against his influence. The Abbey was looking for volunteers, anyone who would “serve as a rod to those who would stray from the herd”, who would be a “righteous force against the growing darkness”, who was tired of being afraid and being alone. It was a right thing to do.

From between the buildings he can hear sudden shouts and a few Overseers appear, leading a group of peasants. It strikes him, how big the contrast is between five of his brethren, wary, swords drawn, masks on their faces expressing righteous wrath they must be feeling after capturing dangerous agents of the Outsider and the meek and tamed band of farmers, their wives and children. They look ordinarily, casting nervous glances, not quite knowing why they've been taken from their homes and where they are being led, other shuffle along stiffly, keeping their gaze to the ground, indifferent to what is happening around them.

There are women, he notices few children, desperately clinging to women's skirts, old men, too weak or too tired to keep up with rapid pace. They don't fight, no one is resisting, nobody's hand is rising into the air to cast a spell. They look as they are already defeated, not believing that anyone will come to their rescue.

One of the women stumbles, her hands are desperately trying to catch empty air, when finally she loses her balance and falls heavily to the ground. The closest Overseer grabs her arm, trying to yank her up. The woman is cowering, face twisted with pain, saying something that is barely audible. Suddenly agitated, the Overseer shouts to her to be quiet, but she doesn't listen. Her voice, though soft, rings clearly through the air, as if the whole world went quiet to hear what she has to say. The group stops, he can hear the murmur passing through it, uncertain and weak at first, only to quickly grow louder and more firm. Accompanying Overseers draw closer, swords ready, their moves stiff and tense. Everyone seems to look at the woman on the ground, silently judging, if this could be reason enough to resist. But the woman's voice isn't calling to arms, is placating and soothing. And not ceasing.

The first Overseer is shouting, more angrily with every word, trying to silence her, their voices intermingling for a moment, when finally the Overseer loses it. Ignoring her hands that try to ward him off, he grabs her hair, yanking the head backwards and exposing the throat and slides almost whole length of his blade from one of her ears to the other.

It’s not that he’s never seen a killing before. It’s the Overseer’s precise, almost automatic, unnatural moves that make him remember every detail of this scene in painful accuracy/precision: a dark smudge of blood staining the cleanness of blade, small drops dripping in regular intervals to the ground; blood splashing down from the cut, in less than three heartbeats creating a ghastly necklace covering front of the woman’s dress; her mouth open wide, desperately trying to draw in a breath and failing, her pale fingers getting stained, when she raises her hands and clutches at throat trying to stop the bleeding, trickles of dark fluid running between her fingers. He is not sure, if all the noise suddenly ceased, or if the Outsider is playing tricks on him, but he can hear the faintest of sounds, the Overseer slowly exhaling, the group still holding their breath.

The Overseer backs two steps and as the body of the woman falls to the ground, he slowly lowers his sword and looks around, as if not entirely sure what has just happened. His expression is hidden behind a mask, but the slump of his shoulders and slow, deliberate moves makes him wonder, if this slaughter/bloodshed was really his intention.

The Overseer suddenly straightens, promptly saluting and when he turns around he spots a bulky figure of Benjamin Holger. He is not wearing a mask and he recognises him instantly, having seen his many marble busts set around the Abbey. His grey hair and harsh features set him apart from the Overseers around him and give him an air of authority. He is saying something, the flame of a torch he’s holding is dancing to the rhythm of his words.

There’s a tingling sensation in the back of his neck, as someone is watching him. He turns around and catches a glimpse of a shadow rushing toward him.

And then everything goes black.

A sudden sweep of nausea washes over him, bending him in half, in one moment his legs give way. He would fall, but someone’s hands clutch tightly around his arms, holding him in place. It helps only a little, when the foul taste in his mouth and stomach is too much and he violently throws up. The grip loosens, he falls to his knees not expecting the lack of support, painfully twisting his wrist. It takes him a moment to realise, that his fingers are still wrapped around something he doesn’t remember taking. He can feel a metal handle under his palm and notices dark stains on his fingers and sleeve of the coat.

Over the haze of sickness he can hear shouts, distant and muffled it seems, until he notices a commotion around him, people suddenly moving in different directions and between the legs of standing Overseers he can spot a body on the ground. He is still dazed, but he recognises gray hair and harsh features. This time, in place of the man’s left eye there is a bloody and a very messy hole. It finally hits him and he hesitantly raises his hand to the eyes, scared of what he may see. The light is poor, but he doesn’t need it to know, that his hand is holding a short and sharp blade. And then, up above, chaos breaks out.


	2. VIII

 

 

High Overseer Scott Grafton

“He drove back the darkness, so we might have peace.”

First Overseer to forge into Pandyssia, to purge darkness wherever it might be found.

Died of plague.

Cremated with Holger’s Opal to honour his battle with plague.

 

 

No! This couldn’t be true! There was so much to do, so little time, so many people to save.

He leaned back, finally moving away from the microscope and a sample he was examining for the last half an hour. No matter how much longer he probed it and whatever tests he did, it wouldn’t change the ugly truth. He was so careful! Of course, he was aware of the danger and couldn’t be absolutely sure, that he would be immune, yet... The irony was that for all the deadly plants, people and bacteria Pandyssia had to offer, it had to be here, in Dunwall, in a relatively safe laboratory environment. And probably not enough scrubbing.

He carefully removed the sample from below the lens, suddenly noticing how much his hands were trembling. He took a steadying breath and slowly exhaled. The extensive knowledge of the illness he had gained over the months didn’t help, the phases he himself observed and catalogued, left vivid images in his memory, images he’d rather not have. How much time, before he would need to make a decision? How long, before anyone would notice?

He ran his fingers through his hair, just to stop them from shaking. In his entire life he never wanted so much to be wrong, but part of him knew, right from the start, from the first innocent cough, that it couldn’t be a coincidence.

He got up and made his was to the window, absentmindedly passing by the desk of his assistant, too engrossed in his work to notice him. The window gave to the backyard, the river and the district across it, barely visible through the raising fog. Parts of the city were still in ruins, quarantined or flooded, like a festering wound no one had even tried to clean, but there was the sun shining trough the clouds, bathing everything in warm afternoon light and one could almost smell spring in the air. As if nothing happened. As if he wasn’t condemned to die.

He still had some time, a week if he was lucky. His recent research confirmed the bacterium had became more aggressive in the last month, much quicker than in the beginning attacking lungs and brain. The last subject, however, displayed astonishing resistance. If only he could isolate the antibodies... His hands clenched the windowsill so tightly that his knuckles went white. It would be more than a week. Maybe, if he joined efforts with a newly appointed royal physician – what was his name again? Something Tyvian... ah, yes, Sokolov – they would figure something out on time. There were rumours Sokolov had made considerable progress in devising a working vaccine. Maybe...

The probes, flasks, tubes, sheets of paper, tongs and spatulas went flying, crushing on the floor, when with one movement he swiped everything from the nearest worktop, barely noticing his assistant rising in alarm from the seat. Not good enough! He didn’t want to die, not now, not in this painfully wretched way the plague had to offer, not losing his mind and bleeding to death.

Suddenly resigned, he dropped limply to a chair, hiding his head in hands, not wanting to think, to feel, just slumber away and forget about everything.

A light touch to the arm woke him from his numbness. He raised his head to see his assistant, cautiously leaning over him, Overseer mask hiding his face. It never occurred to him before, but it felt like the mask’s dispassionate expression was mocking him, grotesquely twisted mouth sneering at him. He felt sudden urge to rip it off, just to see the living thing behind it.

It took him a moment to realise what the man was saying. Something about how far they had got and how soon they would find a cure. There would be no cure, dammit! There couldn’t be, not with him already rotting away. What progress could he possibly make? What difference?

The assistant must have seen something in his face, must have noticed and figured it out. Through the holes in the mask he could see how the assistant’s eyes suddenly went wide with fear. He backed away, the impassive mask a sharp contrast to his stance. He half expected him to run away in panic, so he forced his lips into a small and reassuring smile, repeating a few times and in different words that it was too early for him to spread the disease. That he wouldn’t let the assistant, or anyone else for that matter, to contract the plague because of his negligence. The asssistant noded, but it seemed absent and automatic and the man couldn't read his expression, hidden behind a mask. He's not convinced, but there's only so much he could do. And then he told him about his plan. To return to the research and finish it for the day. And then all that remained was asking for help in a matter he couldn’t deal with himself. If he was to die, he would go down on his own terms. He was the damn High Overseer after all.


End file.
